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I set out to find Melbourne's best op-shops with tales of
unearthed treasures in mind. I've heard about the guy who bought an
old National Geographic magazine from the Salvos for 50 cents and
sold it at auction for $5000. Or the 1960s Pucci dress salvaged
from an op-shop for $12, valued at $1800.

Kristie Montagu (with Richard Lawrence and Fiona Dalwood), the
authors of the first book to list and rate all of Melbourne's
op-shops and second-hand emporiums assure me these are real
stories. Then they give me a list of their top 10 op-shops and I
pick three to put to the test.

First stop, the Australian Animal Protection Society in
Moorabbin. This is the shop that, according to the Treasure
Hunter's Guide, "tops the lot", and nearly caused their chief
spy to have a heart attack when she unearthed a vintage Chanel
handbag for $5 - worth almost $200.

Entering the shop, I immediately realise this is the iconic
op-shop where buried treasure is quite literally buried. There's no
room to swing a cat, although the "vintage" smell suggests one
might have suffocated under a pile of men's trousers. This makes
bargain hunting more a test of endurance than an exercise in retail
therapy.

The window is crammed with chipped glassware, kitsch ornaments
and paintings that wouldn't even have been cool in the 1970s. I
suspect that somewhere in this shop lurks a portrait of a clown
with a solitary tear trickling down his cheek.

Two little old ladies man a counter that has no till, no
telephone and - judging by the look on their faces when a man in
biker clothes hands over a $50 note for a $4 necklace - very little
change.

Stock is housed anywhere they can find a place for it. Baseball
caps overflow from a bucket on the floor. Battered suitcases nestle
on a buckling shelf overhead. A jumble of tangled 50-cent ties
hangs next to a stand that seems to be growing handbags like tree
branches.

The retiree behind the counter sighs as she laments the
"modernisation of op-shops", in which stores have become organised
and spotless.

"They're not what we class as op-shops," she says pointedly. I
regale her with the legend of the Chanel handbag and ask why they
sold it for less than the price of an all-day tram ticket.

"We don't really have the time to think about pricing everything
here," she says. "We might recognise a good brand like Country Road
and mark it up to maybe $5, but we like to keep prices fairly
reasonable."

That's the beauty of shopping in grass-roots op-shops - the
staff don't always know what's under their noses. The bigger stores
buy clothes from charities by the tonne and have become huge
secondhand supermarkets. The Treasure Hunter's Guide calls
them "the McDonald's of the op-shop world", and find there are more
gems in Melbourne's suburban op-shops. The authors visited
Moorabbin and left with "a bulging bag of retro goodies for
$20".

Sadly, I'm not so lucky. The best I can find amid the knitting
needles and pensioner couture is a black cocktail dress for $5. But
it's the wrong size - a common predicament for any op-shopper
without the inclination or skill to use a sewing machine.

So, to Bayswater, and the guide book's favourite St Vincent De
Paul op-shop.

The top brass at St Vinnies have cleverly tapped into the demand
for retro fashion with "InnZone" - youthful fashion for the '60s,
'70s and '80s. Staff pride themselves on colour-coded
merchandising, and some of the displays wouldn't look out of place
in a Myer window.

Treasures abound in this massive store and I start to get that
fluttery feeling in my chest that usually means I'm about to buy a
bunch of things I don't need.

That's the danger of op-shopping - your wardrobe may not require
a red-and-white polka-dot Minnie Mouse-style dress, but if it's
only $7.50 I'm sure I'll wear it some day.

I also buy a wool-knit jacket for $7, which I tell myself looks
deconstructed and retro, but may well have belonged to a senior
called Doris.

This op-shop is worth a trip just for its shoes. I find a pair
of chunky red platforms for $5.50 and some snakeskin-heeled sandals
at $6.

As for their '80s fashions? Let's just say Pauline Hanson and
the cast of Dynasty want their stuff back.

Last stop, the Salvation Army Family Store in Abbotsford. This
huge emporium of "pre-loved" bric-a-brac looks like Arthur Daley's
bargain basement. I'm told it's the place to come if you want to
deck out your new share house, and the various studenty types
eyeing up the lounge suites and crockery seem to back that up.

But antique collectables have made this store a regular fixture
for canny second-hand dealers.

They're waiting on the doorstep every morning for the chance to
harvest the most lucrative items from other people's discarded
junk. The Salvos are on to them, though. A locked glass cabinet
houses the valuable stuff, so you're not likely to pick up a rare
antique amid the floor stock - unless, the assistant manager tells
me, "someone's made a grave mistake".

Unlike some op-shops, most of the staff here are paid and have
been trained to spot valuables, so it's not a great place for
scooping a haul of heirlooms you can sell on eBay.

But even the valuable stuff is priced below market value - if
you're lucky enough to find something the dealers missed. I spot a
Royal Doulton bowl for $35, a cutlery set with ivory handles priced
at $55, and a Royal Stafford teacup, saucer and side plate for
$15.

I'm almost tempted to buy something, but my attention is
captured by some of the worst brides' and bridesmaids' dresses I've
ever seen. It's a wedding graveyard, and I wonder if the marriages
dissolved through irreconcilable fashion differences.

I manage to leave without opening my wallet, but I'm told Friday
night's regular half-price clothing sale "goes off", so I may well
be back.